by Nina Stibbe
Reverend Woodward began the actual lesson then and explained his role to me.
‘My job is to guide my flock. Not as a shepherd because my flock are people, not sheep, but nonetheless I must guide them and help them find meaning and purpose and reasons to strive in the world.’ Something along those lines.
‘You’re a cross between Claire Rayner and Ian Dury,’ I observed, and he agreed.
‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘except, instead of being able to pick up a magazine or put a record on, you have to come to church on Sunday.’
‘It seems outdated,’ I said.
We went quite philosophical and I said I didn’t think we needed miracles, and epiphanies left, right and centre, awakenings and visits from God–we needed to appreciate the actual, ordinary things around us. I gave him the example that I was thankful for the sandals Jesus wore because they’d helped me cure my athlete’s foot, not because they’d walked on water. Reverend Woodward said he felt that a bit simplistic.
I saw an opportunity to change the subject for a few minutes and grabbed it.
‘Athlete’s foot should not be ignored or taken for granted and neither should verrucas, corns, bunions, gout, or swollen ankles,’ I told him. When Reverend Woodward tried to butt in with Jesus, I resisted and continued, explaining that I knew this all too well from my days working as an auxiliary nurse but since I had a high tolerance to pain and discomfort, I had simply got on with life. After reading an article in Titbits entitled ‘First Foot Forward’, which linked foot health with professional success, it occurred to me that I had athlete’s foot–probably caused by the Swedish surgical clogs supplied by the practice. And I set off to Clark’s shoe shop, and had to reject an array of breathable sandals–one with a high heel and another in a patent leather with a flower buckle–before finally purchasing a pair of flat, unisex, tan ones.
‘Don’t put them in the box,’ I’d said. ‘I’m going to wear them.’ I strode home and, except for slightly wishing I’d gone for the navy version, I felt on top of the world. I told the vicar, and I paused there but he didn’t interrupt and seemed to be genuinely interested, so I continued. When Tammy (my colleague, I explained) noticed my socks and sandals she wished I hadn’t worn them in front of her. She didn’t care that my feet were now getting fresh air and had the support of two buckled straps and a slight heel, which promoted good posture in the upper body, I told the Rev–she was appalled that I’d let something as trivial as foot health spoil my whole look.
‘Couldn’t you have at least gone for a pair of Dr. Scholl’s?’ she said.
I said, ‘No, I couldn’t,’ and frankly thought it a bit rich coming from someone who had caused the whole practice to switch to decaffeinated Maxwell House in order to support her ovaries–but I didn’t say that.
Reverend Woodward did interject at this point but only to say he’d got a very nice pair from the island of Crete, which had been hand-made by a widow, and were probably quite authentically like those worn by Jesus. And so an hour passed quite bearably and I went away with the name of Reverend Woodward’s preferred foot powder, Daktarin.
Andy was wary of Reverend Woodward, having been hounded by him after his parents had died.
‘Honestly, the guy never stopped calling round.’
‘He was just doing his job.’
‘What is his job?’
‘To guide his flock. Not as a shepherd because his flock are people not sheep, and to help them find meaning and purpose and reasons to be happy–and so forth.’
‘He sounds like Ian Dury,’ Andy said, and I shrieked, because hadn’t I said exactly that in my lesson?
The following week, I repeated this observation to Reverend Woodward–and though it seems controversial now, it went down surprisingly well–in fact, I realized Reverend Woodward was constantly on the lookout for things to preach about the following Sunday and, making no pretence that ideas came to him from on high, would jot things down to expand for a sermon. He’d had a few recent flops, he told me, in particular a sermon describing Wilfred Thesiger being humbled by illiterate desert herdsmen, which had been met with some confusion and a little anger. He needed to work on tone and style, he said. And saying that, he reminded me so much of my future self–in London or Massachusetts–seeking inspiration for my column and wrestling with my desire to write about dogs and cars when my readership would prefer cats and nail polish, and by the end of the hour we’d sketched out a sermon for the following week, based on ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’.
In the third week, I was supposed to hand in some homework on the basics of the seven sacraments, but took him instead a list of things to have up his sleeve for sermons–if he got stuck one week.
Jaws by Peter Benchley–authority and guidance.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy–the meaning of life.
On the Buses – humiliation, cruelty, how not to treat your wife.
Watership Down by Richard Adams–survival and adventure.
Kramer versus Kramer–perils of marrying the wrong person.
Grease–loyalty, fashion, friendship, birth control.
The Generation Game–anti-materialism.
Roots by Alex Haley–slavery.
Oh, Brother!–monks, perseverance.
The Thorn Birds – travel, farming.
This is Your Life – ambition, success, failure.
He looked at the list, thanked me, and said he’d probably do something about This is Your Life that coming Sunday, recalling an episode in which a factory worker from Wales who had become an international superstar is reacquainted with her ex-colleagues from the factory and they all get along like a house on fire in spite of the gulf between them. He invited me to come along.
And, you see, we got along like that from then on. I wished I wanted to be part of his flock, but I didn’t, and he didn’t mind anyway, that’s how good a vicar he was. I never knew a person who didn’t love him, apart from my granny–and even she admitted to being quite fond of him.
18. The Road Ahead
Mrs Woodward telephoned in advance of our first lesson to ask me to wear comfortable clothing and stout shoes. I mentioned my athlete’s foot and asked whether I might be permitted Jesus sandals. She supposed it would be all right as long as I fastened the straps properly, and went on to suggest a powder, ‘far superior to the others’. I explained I was beyond help from a powder and was using an aerosol so powerful it made my eyes water. She changed the subject abruptly, and told me she’d never passed a driving test herself because she’d learned in the military and therefore was exempted.
‘It can throw people,’ she said, ‘hearing that, so I like it out of the way.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘it hasn’t thrown me.’
‘Good. Now, have you driven, at all, yourself?’
‘No.’
‘No mules, donkeys, go-karts, trikes?’ she chuckled.
‘Well, horse-riding and I had a kiddy-wheel for a while.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘A fake steering wheel you fix in a car, so the kid can pretend to steer. It’s very realistic.’
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s going to make a big difference.’
Mrs Woodward was to collect me from my grandmother’s house and just before she arrived my granny handed me a pair of gloves, which would prevent wheel-slippage and thumb-chafing. I thanked her for these–and in advance for the lessons.
‘Driving instructors are like gods to me,’ I said, in an unguarded moment on the driveway. ‘Turning non-drivers into drivers seems more divine than anything in the Bible.’
‘I hope you’re taking your confirmation lessons seriously,’ she said.
Mrs Woodward reversed in and parked on a hosepipe. I went to the car window and introduced myself. I couldn’t help noticing that her driving spectacles made her look like the Dalai Lama in a wig, and that being just the kind of observation my granny made all the time, really wanted to whisper it to her. But I
didn’t and later I was glad I hadn’t because Mrs Woodward turned out to be the nicest person I’d ever met.
The first lesson went very well. Mrs Woodward said a prayer before we drove off but I think that was just for the benefit of my grandmother, who remained standing in the driveway watching. I didn’t take the driver’s seat until we were safely in Woolco car park.
As I got to know Mrs Woodward’s life story I found it to contain moral guidance and principles for living a good life–much more so, say, than her husband’s or Jesus’ for that matter, because she hadn’t had Jesus’ luck or Reverend Woodward’s expensive education and she’d had a shocking mother, worse than mine, who’d basically sold her into a marriage aged twenty-one, and she’d had most of her upper and all of her lower teeth removed before the wedding–a prenuptial requirement. Now, thirty years on, her lower jawbone had all but dissolved even though she was only about fifty. God-wise, she was somewhere between Reverend Woodward and my mother. She believed Jesus had probably been a really nice person with good intentions and that his teachings were basically worthwhile, but she didn’t think we were all going to meet up again in heaven.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘what a terrible thought.’
But driving–oh, Lord, I loved it straight away. I loved the feeling of acceleration and the car’s response as I raised one foot and pressed down with the other–the smooth negotiation. I felt I must have been born to drive–albeit, we were still in the car park and Mrs Woodward was saying, ‘Let her bite,’ and that kind of thing. To my delight, at the end she declared me ‘a natural’. It wasn’t just the confidence I had gained from my kiddy-wheel, it was that I loved small spaces with travel blankets, and I loved moving, going places, stopping, and knowing I could go again at the twist of a key. The idea that I could literally drive to the sea seemed miraculous, and now I was the driver, it felt all the more so. I wasn’t a car lover, mind you. I loved what cars could do, not what they were. I suddenly understood my mother’s comment that she only felt truly safe with her own vehicle parked nearby, with a full tank of fuel, the ignition key hidden in her shoe, and her shoe on her foot or in sight.
I told Mrs Woodward, that first day, of my exhilaration, and she nodded and said that was the sign of a true driver.
‘You’re going to be my first pass, I just know it,’ she said.
In some ways she was a very thorough teacher. She had a strict ‘no high heels’ rule and insisted on her pupils learning arm signals even though there was no requirement to demonstrate them on the actual test. There was her seat-belt rule, her regular eyesight checks, and her chanting of ‘read the road ahead, read the road ahead’. However, she also had a habit of falling asleep. The first time this happened I was surprised. I only realized she was asleep because of her snoring and I drove round and round the same little triangle of streets so that she wouldn’t wake up confused. After that I got used to it and pretty much expected her to be fast asleep for most of the lesson. When I mentioned this to her she apologized. It was a combination, she said, of her sleeping pill and the motion of the vehicle. I had her permission to shout at her whenever she nodded off, and if that didn’t work, I was to hit her with a rolled-up newspaper. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hit her and said I’d just shout more loudly. She agreed but asked me not to shout, ‘Wake up!’ in case anyone heard. I suggested, ‘Read the road ahead,’ and she called me a genius. She was easy to impress.
We talked a lot about driving, as you might imagine. I told her about my sister’s driving lessons with Harry Janis, who’d got his penis out.
‘Oh, that’s very much against the instructors’ code of conduct,’ said Mrs Woodward, ‘but to be fair, he’s never had a fail.’
‘Even so,’ I said, ‘I’d rather have you and know that the worst that’s going to happen is your denture popping out.’
‘But I’ve never had a pass.’
She always said that, but it wasn’t actually true. Reverend Woodward had passed, eventually, under her tutelage and during the two years it took him, the two of them had fallen in love, left their respective unpleasant spouses and married, and Reverend Woodward now only drove in an emergency so she never counted him as a pass.
During my second driving lesson the following Saturday, I mentioned to Mrs Woodward that Andy Nicolello was not only my boyfriend, but was also lodging with my mother.
She was flabbergasted and said, ‘The lad whose parents gassed themselves because of Mr Callaghan? The one who made my denture?’
‘Yes. But I think that was just a rumour.’
‘Well, I never.’
And I asked if we might end the lesson outside my home. She said yes, of course, but needed clarification as to where I wanted to go, and I explained that when I said ‘home’, I meant my mother and Mr Holt’s house, and when I said ‘the flat’ I meant my actual home.
‘And you’re happy about him moving in with your mother, are you?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’
So we drove out that way, circled the village to use up the hour, and then I pulled in behind the Flying Pea, which I must say looked very green. Mrs Woodward said she’d come in for a quick cup of tea.
Andy Nicolello was there at my house, eating a slice of toast, this time with home-made raspberry jam. He loved toast–grills being a new thing for him, and bread now usually available.
My mother had been watering a neighbour’s garden as a favour and invited to help herself to the soft fruit.
‘I made jam,’ she announced.
‘And how is it?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ said Andy, ‘but I think you should strain the pips and detritus out.’
Detritus. I saw my mother beam at the word.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘one should really.’
‘What? Are you a jam expert or something?’ I said to Andy.
‘Yes.’ And of course he was. (All those hedgerow fruits.)
Mrs Woodward suddenly remembered that it had been a jam pip that brought her and Andy and me into contact, via the surgery, and we stood for a moment and appreciated the oddness of that fact. Mrs Woodward finished her tea and then had to dash. She was visiting Gartree Prison to talk to a murderer who’d found God but hated vicars.
‘Aren’t you terrified?’ my mother asked.
‘No, he’s a very nice man, apart from that one murder, which he bitterly regrets…’
On approximately my fifth lesson with Mrs Woodward, I got trapped in a bus stop near the racecourse and was overtaken by a number of cars including the Flying Pea–being driven erratically. I tried to go after it but somehow stalled the engine.
We saw the Flying Pea again further along the bypass, when it shot past us on a dangerous bend, and saw my mother sitting in the passenger seat. I gasped.
‘It’s my mother’s car, but who’s driving?’ I said to Mrs Woodward, but she was asleep. I sped up and beeped as I drew behind them.
Mrs Woodward woke up with a jolt and said, ‘Read the road ahead,’ and adjusted her specs.
I told her it was my mother in front.
‘Well, that was an unwise manoeuvre on her part.’
‘It’s not her driving!’ I said. Was she giving my brother driving lessons? Was that why she’d refused me? If not him, who?
I roared after them and the Flying Pea came to a halt behind a milk float, I overtook, and Mrs Woodward strained round in her seat.
‘Who’s at the wheel?’ I demanded, fully expecting it to be Jack.
‘Good grief,’ said Mrs Woodward, ‘it’s the lad from the surgery.’
‘What lad?’
‘The one whose parents gassed themselves. You know, your young man, your mother’s lodger.’
‘Oh, my bloody God,’ I said, ‘she’s teaching Andy Nicolello to drive.’
‘And they’re not displaying L-plates,’ said Mrs Woodward.
Mrs Woodward dropped me at the flat and I went in despondently. I thought about phoning my mother to as
k why she was giving driving lessons to Andy Nicolello when she had refused me. It was the two-bar electric fire all over again (I won’t bore you with it), only worse–and with my boyfriend.
I planned to make a speech which presented the major let-downs of my late childhood and highlighted her selfishness / my abandonment.
‘First, you interrupt my Christian development and tell people I’m a druid, then you ruin my nursing career by threatening to report my ex-boss at Paradise Lodge to the tax man, then you refuse to teach me to drive, abandon me to Mrs Woodward, and possibly start having sex with my boyfriend.’
But I didn’t phone.
The very next day Andy dropped in with our dental items. I heard him trot up the steps, whistling ‘Runaround Sue’. JP and Tammy had left already, so I went out to the hall and I asked him, point-blank, how he thought it was OK to accept driving lessons from my mother after she’d refused me–when I was having to sell my soul to God.
Andy looked surprised and I had to repeat my question. He thought about it for a moment, puzzled, and said he thought it was perfectly acceptable.
‘She can’t teach you,’ he said. ‘You were jettisoned because of her parental-obligation thing–apron strings.’
‘But it’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not fair,’ said Andy. ‘Your mother is redressing the balance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s doing the morally correct thing, probably for the first time in her life.’
‘How dare you say that about my mother when she’s taken you in?’ I considered adding, ‘And you swan around together and make her look like a nymphomaniac.’ But I didn’t.
‘I’m a paying lodger. My being there is helping her financially, after she made a hash of her life.’
‘Not as much of a hash as your parents made,’ I said. (Childish, I know.)
‘What do you know about my parents?’
‘Nothing. But I think you’re exploiting my mother’s generosity.’
